Impressions
by difficile
Summary: I could have dropped Vaan right then; I could have shot him down, turned my back and kept myself from this troublesome folly he led me into. But I didn’t. And now, I can’t help but be grateful. Balthier/Vaan.


**_A/n: I don't own anything. Not in this fic, at least._**

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**Impressions**

**(o14: Judgement)**

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There are no excuses to explain my incentive for staying with him. Or rather, I prefer letting him stay with me. After all, I had many opportunities to rid myself of Vaan.

There are no second chances for a first impression, or so they say. However with this concept in mind, it still does not stray from the fact that my thoughts on him changed drastically within moments of our first meeting.

First impression?

_Nuisance._

What was he, a street rat of somesort? And how, dare I ask, did a commoner find his way into the royal palace?

He looked young – at first glance I had guessed no younger than eighteen (and I stand corrected now). I could easily detect the dark circles around his eyes that showed lack of sleep, and the grime beneath his fingernails from only the Gods know what.

"I found it. It's mine."

My, my. What logic. Short, sweet, and to the point. His gumption made up for his lack of proper vocabulary, though such poor diction should be anticipated from any Rabanastran. But such defiance in a young boy wasn't ignored.

Rather, mentally jotted down for a future use of revenge via verbal mortification, if need be.

I could have ended it quickly right then and there – cast a simple sleep or stop spell, or merely brought out the Altair to do my bidding. She's quite the assailant, mind you, if Fran's condescending gaze does nothing (which is rare, but stranger things have happened – I can say that now with no trouble). With one easy step I could have brought the boy to nary a thing; the treasure would have been mine – _ours_ (my apologies, Fran) – and we would have been on our merry way, back on the _Strahl_ where a bottle of Chardonnay and an evening of solitude was waiting for me.

But I didn't. And that night erupted into anything _but _solitude.

I turn my head for just a trice at the sound of Imperials, and when I turn back –

Gone.

Second impression?

_Fleet-footed _nuisance.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

To this very day Fran tends to berate me on my constant tendency to elaborate on things, whether it be words or actions. Sometimes I don't blame her. For instance, if I had just chased Vaan down like any pirate would, Fran and I most likely would have escaped before those bloody Imperials spotted us.

Alas, I did not. I stopped and stood, and Vaan did the same – though he hadn't any other option, really, unless he was up for jumping off royal palace bridges whilst heated fights took place beneath.

"End of the line."

(Well, at least that was to the point. Fran should commemorate me on such a feat.)

His grip tightened on the stone. A glare. I even heard, perhaps, a bit of a scoff through the clatter of blades and overlapping voices nearing us.

Third impression?

_Dogged_, fleet-footed nuisance.

He was wasting time – _my_ time.

To say the least, I was impressed he had held out this far. Far from pleased, by any means, but impressed. Perhaps stereotyping Rabanastran men into a mingling group of half-clad, blabbering, incompetent fools should have been reconsidered.

(But it wasn't, and I found out later from my travels with Vaan that my personal assumption of the male Rabanastrans was, in actuality, quite accurate.)

Vaan was trapped between the Leading Man and a no-nonsense Viera (though that seems redundant to say), yet I still saw the sparkle of challenge in his eyes.

What an interesting character this boy was; disparate from most his age.

I always was attracted to the diverse. Call it a weakness of mine – for it is. He trapped me a bit with his natural differentiation.

Resorting to taking matters into my own hands – well, arms really, if you want to get technical – was not what I planned. But when Imperials are on your heels, one usually inclines towards first impulses to carry out actions, whether they are logical or not.

Sprinting towards the blonde and tossing him over my shoulder? Not logical.

Fourth impression?

_Heavy_.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Let go of me!"

Fifth impression?

_Oblivious_.

As mundane as that demand sounded in the current situation, (I mean honestly, we were teetering in mid-air on a malfunctioned hoverbike while on the brink of tumbling down to inevitable doom by the hands of Imperials and bloodied blades, for the Gods' sakes!) I still managed to croak a reply.

"Keep this up and I will!"

I look back on that now and think, 'what a bluff'. Could I have really done that, knowing what I do now?

_Feeling_ what I do now?

I could feel the rough edges of the warm stone against my thumb as I held onto Vaan, and I remembered that I could obtain this treasure I came for and drop the unwanted weight rather easily.

Yes, I could have let him go. But honestly, at that point, the treasure didn't even matter anymore. To this insane situation we were in, getting out alive, unscarred, and wardrobe malfunctionless were the main things on my mind. Sky pirate or not, we do have our priorities to consider that are above treasure.

(Take shirt cuffs, for example.)

I'll cease my beating around the bush and flatout say it: Even if I wanted to let go of Vaan, I couldn't have. Contrary to popular belief, I have quite a nagging conscience.

I wouldn't have been able to sleep well at night, if at all, knowing that I chose a shiny stone over the life of a boy, however naïve he may be. For I too was once naïve (though not to the irrational extent Vaan is), curious and foolishly daring; I could relate, even in the heat of that moment.

So my grip never faltered.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

If you're ever in Rabanastre for a vacation, might I suggest the scenic Garamsythe Waterway. With it's intricate labyrinth, unique aroma, and outlandishly interesting commoners (such as the attractive gigantoad or charming dire rat), you're bound to get your money's worth.

…Oh, pardon me. My sarcasm is exceptionally dry this evening.

After a most unexpected and rather embarrassing crash, we three found ourselves as far from high and dry as Al-Cid Margrace is to remotely attractive.

And I'd wager that to be pretty damn far.

More like the lowest of the low, wet, and surrounded by the permeating stench of nothing short of a Gods-damned sewer.

It was there, perched on the dilapidated wall of the waterway, that I learned his name, and in exchange gave him mine and Fran's.

_Vaan._

One syllable, a myriad of memories.

He looked at Fran and me with wary, dark eyes, and shied away from the rubble we were sitting on. His grip tightened on the stone.

"Don't even think you're getting this."

Sixth impression?

_Paranoid._

I could have knocked him out then, taken the stone and left him to wake later and fend for himself. Fran could have gotten the both of us out of there – perhaps maybe not as quickly, but we would have been out no less.

But I didn't.

Nevertheless we banded together, and I remember my thoughts quite clearly while trudging through the thick, murky waters of Rabanastre's revolting wastes.

_What I'd do right now for some chardonnay, a shower (no, make that a bath), a change of clothes, and a massage (if I could talk Fran into that again – her nails are a nice touch, though the way she glares at me when I request such a thing makes me opt to do it myself)._

Oh, please don't think of me as vain; I thought of other things, too. Especially when Fran's bow richocheted off the side-railing of the waterway and past my ear.

_A shot of whiskey wouldn't hurt, either._

Vaan was quite the navigator when it came to pillaging through dark sewers. He led most of the way, turning back to look at me or Fran every once in a while with a glower of suspicion behind those blue eyes.

(…I always did like blue eyes.)

He would turn a corner, ahead of us, and I'd heard a small grunt and a slash before laying eyes on an already dead fiend (albeit a weak one), and a slouched over Vaan gripping his trusty dagger.

Vaan was quick on his feet, never once slipping on the unpredictable tile (or what have you) of Garamsythe. He must have come down there often, for we were almost out of there shortly until the boy decided to play hero.

Now as a dashingly attractive sky pirate, I've had a handful of experiences with damsels in distress.

But only when the time deems it appropriate.

A group of Imperial guards and a labyrinth of a sewer?

Not appropriate to be catching an austere girl in a pink-miniskirt (I still wretch in the most metaphorical sense whenever I lay eyes on such a getup). Not in the least bit.

Seventh impression?

_Selfless._

Not good.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Nalbina dungeon wasn't really what it was added up to be. Rumors are certainly elaborated through the grapevine like some inebriated version of _telephone_. Sand, bars, bricks, and carcasses.

Nothing new to me. I was expecting at least a torture chamber.

Fran went off to find an exit (what _would_ I do without her?) and left me with our new comrade, or rather, a whole new sense of the word_ jailbait_.

Ah, and he looked so peaceful when in a state of bedraggled, dirt-speckled unconsciousness.

Too bad it was short-lived, though the spectacle of him jumping in surprise at a dried Bangaa was rather entertaining. It was like the boy had never heard bloodcurdling screams before, either.

Eight impression?

_Edgy._

I'm not usually one for sharing, as you might've gathered. So when leaving the option of drinking from _my_ waterskin open, only to have it brushed aside without even a word of thanks, I was rather miffed.

It was then, as I watched Vaan saunter off into a dungeon he had no knowledge of, that I made a silent vow to myself to not follow nor worry about his affairs any longer.

If he wants to run off blindly into some wannabe dungeon, he could be my guest.

Ninth impression?

_Foolish._

I sat twiddling my thumbs for what seemed like an eternity until I finally heard something interesting come out of the mouths of two prisoners besides drunken or crazed babble.

"Seeq's be takin' out anotha' poor soul, I hear."

"Lettin' 'em off the hook easy?"

"Don't look like it. Be three of 'em."

"After one?"

"Aye, a hume boy."

"Rarely get those."

"How much you wager 'til he gives out?"

"Ah, hume flesh's so delicate 'n easily torn. I'd say a hit 'er two, for a knot of rust."

"I say he'll last five. Fer two knots o' rust."

And with that I heard the two Bangaas (Bangi? What _would_ you call the plural version of those vile creatures?) cackle and walk off towards another corridor.

…I could have stayed. I could have just remained on the large stone until Fran came back with a route to the nearest escape exit.

But I didn't.

I could have watched the scene unfold in the fighting ring, observed quietly like the other prisoners as the truly petrified young blonde weaved in and out of the overgrown swines until running out of stamina altogether.

I could have turned on my heel and left as the sound of clubs on flesh and painful cries reverberated off the walls, allowing Vaan to disappear from my life completely.

But I didn't.

Instead I jumped in without a second thought, side-by-side with Vaan. I glanced at him for just a moment and saw the relief flood his eyes. He wasn't expecting me to come to his rescue.

I never told him damsels in distress were my forte.

He put up a good fight – and though I never told him this then, I thought we made quite a good little tag-team in that ring.

Vaan grinned at me after the brawl and in that small smile I felt something I hadn't in a while.

Tenth impression?

_Promising._

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

I could have let go. I could have pushed, shoved, shot, deserted, and defeated Vaan with ease.

…But I didn't.

I stayed, I protected, I taught and I guided a dogged, heavy, oblivious, fleet-footed, selfless, paranoid, edgy, foolish, promising nuisance.

I did things I never thought I'd do.

…And now, looking back on those experiences and holding this boy in my arms, I can't imagine it being any other way.


End file.
